


Geralt Doesn't Understand that Humans Have Limits

by taylor_tut



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Exhaustion, Gen, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sick Character, Sickfic, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:26:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22620190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: Basically going to be a series of several fics in which Geralt doesn't understand and pushes Jaskier far beyond physical human limitations.
Comments: 53
Kudos: 871





	1. Exhaustion

Jaskier had stopped asking for breaks three days ago, and Geralt could only assume he’d finally come to the conclusion that they were not going to happen and decided to reserve his energy in favor of walking rather than complaining. 

Their pace was challenging, even for Geralt, with his Witcher constitution and the fact that he spent much of his time riding Roach while Jaskier trotted alongside them. As for Jaskier, he was dead on his feet. 

Partially, he’d told Jaskier that he wasn’t allowed to ride the horse because the only way to get a little peace and quiet these days was to piss Jaskier off enough to make him give Geralt the silent treatment. 

It had been funny, at first, to watch Jaskier huff about needing a nap. It was amusing to hear him tripping over his own feet when they continued walking well after it was dark outside. Something inside Geralt felt relieved when he felt Jaskier like him a little less, when he felt Jaskier pull a little more away, when he threatened to leave, get a room at an inn in the next town they saw and stop following. 

It had been interesting to see him in a bad mood. 

Jaskier began picking fights about little things, petty things. He’d say it was too hot and Geralt would say he was perfectly comfortable, and Jaskier would gripe about how Geralt was only saying it to be contrary, that he could say the sky was blue and Geralt would disagree just because he couldn’t stand to share the same opinion. He’d get angry about situations he could normally laugh about, like having to find a new path because the one they’d planned on taking was blocked off by overgrown trees. Geralt would swear that he’d almost seen Jaskier cry when he’d plucked a string on his lute a bit too hard and it had snapped. 

Less entertaining, however, had been when he’d watched Jaskier’s reflexes slow to the point where when he stumbled, he couldn’t react fast enough to catch himself, and he’d started fo fall more often. Less funny was to watch Jaskier eat as fast and as little as he possibly could, eventually turning down meals altogether in favor of sleeping during their short rests because he could “eat while they walked,” but he needed the sleep. And the worst of it had been when Jaskier’s several-day marathon of verbosely foul moods turned into being too tired to even argue with Geralt, when his irritable ramblings had turned into one-word answers to questions only when prompted. 

Despite all this, it was still a surprise to Geralt when Jaskier crashed and burned. 

Jaskier had been sullen for hours, so quiet that Geralt found himself checking behind to ensure that Jaskier was still following. His steps were loud and his eyes were barely open as he walked, and Geralt wasn’t cruel.

“Roach needs a break,” Geralt announced around dinnertime, taking her reins even though she knew what the words meant and was already happily trotting along to the side of the path into a clearing. Jaskier, eyes still mostly shut, walked right into the back of Geralt when he stopped and bounced off, falling backward onto the trail. Geralt thought he muttered an apology, but he couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t move until Geralt extended a hand to help him up, and even then, it seemed as if it were more instinctive than anything else. 

“Alright?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier nodded. His face was pale, alarmingly so, and his grip was weak enough that Geralt more or less had to pull him up by the forearms. 

Normally, Geralt would throw the waterskin to (at) Jaskier, telling him to fetch water from the nearest river while he cooked, but he was relatively sure that if he turned Jaskier loose into the forest in this state, he might not find his way back. He lit a fire and set a rock in the center of it. Jaskier didn’t even pretend to watch him work, appearing to be sleeping sitting up. 

After letting the rock heat up for a little while, he threw two healthy portions of salt-cured meat on top and handed Jaskier a stick with which to turn them. 

“Tend these,” he commanded gruffly. “I’m going to replenish our water.”

Jaskier more or less nodded, which Geralt took to mean he was accepting the responsibility, so he wandered off into the forest in search of a river. 

With his enhanced ability to hear the nearby stream, it took Geralt less than half the time it normally took Jaskier to fill the waterskins. The food should be finished cooking by the time he returned, he thought, and waiting for him. It felt almost domestic, their situation, but nothing so comfortable as that. Admitting that he liked having Jaskier waiting for him would be admitting that he cared for the bard, and that would mean admitting he owed him better than this life and, since he couldn’t provide another, that he should tell Jaskier to be on his way. 

And he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. 

He could smell charred meat from farther away than a human could, and it prickled at him a bit forebodingly. He tried to let it go: Jaskier was no stellar cook, after all, and likely had overcooked the rabbit for fear of eating it slightly-too-raw and getting sick, which had happened last time Geralt had allowed him to prepare dinner. 

When he emerged through the trees, Geralt saw the meat still sitting on the rock, smoking and untouched. 

“Jaskier,” he barked, “that’s burning.” No reply. “Jaskier,” he tried again, louder this time. Again, Jaskier made no move that indicated he’d heard him at all. 

By the time Geralt reached the campsite and unkindly tore the stick from Jaskier’s hands to flip the meat, it was far beyond saving, completely black on one side and so cooked through the middle it was practically petrified. 

“Did I not ask you to watch this?” he demanded. Jaskier was staring at the fire but not really seeing it, slowly and lazily blinking. His left hand was still cupped in the shape in which it had gripped the stick, as if he hadn’t even noticed it was no longer in his possession. For the first time, Geralt felt a little uncertain. “Jaskier?” he called. Dinner forgotten, Geralt knelt down beside Jaskier, placing one hand on his knee when that didn’t get his attention. “Can you hear me?” 

It took a long moment, like the words were reaching him from the top of a pool in which Jaskier had sunk to the bottom, but with enough effort, he forced his gaze to Geralt. Still, though, there was something empty about his eyes, like he was looking through rather than at Geralt. 

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed, pressing a hand to Jaskier’s forehead and finding himself unable to even feel relief when he found it barely warm, definitely not enough to cause him to be so out of it, because that meant he still didn’t know what the problem was.

“Jaskier, what’s wrong?” he asked, his tone sharp with both worry and the fear of losing Jaskier’s fleeting attention. Jaskier blinked slowly, drooped forward into Geralt’s shoulder a little. 

“M’just…” he trailed off for a moment, boneless against Geralt, “so tired.” 

It had been days, Geralt realized, since he’d properly rested, and Jaskier was at his physical limit. He felt retroactively guilty about dismissing Jaskier’s complaints, but how was he to know that the whining had really been a warning that he was nearing collapse?

“Okay,” Geralt conceded. “Let’s get you lying down, then.” 

Jaskier was nearly limp, very malleable in his grip as Geralt undressed him to the underclothes he typically slept in, realizing upon doing so that it had been a long, long time since they’d rested long enough to warrant getting comfortable. 

Worryingly, he had to prop Jaskier up against the rock to keep him from falling face-first into the dirt while he set up his bedroll near the fire. When it was not only set up but sufficiently warmed by the radiant heat from the flames, he half-carried Jaskeir to it and laid him flat, covering him with the thickest blanket they had in their possession. The night was cool to Geralt, but he knew that Jaskier probably found it chilly to the point of shivering, if he’d had the energy to spare on it, and he didn’t want him having nightmares on a night when he clearly needed as much restful sleep as he could get. 

Jaskier fell asleep without so much as a “goodnight,” and Geralt found himself smoothing the hair away from his face once before deciding it was too kind and backing away to sit on the other side of the fire. The low light illuminated the dark circles under Jaskier’s eyes, stark against his pale face. He was exhausted, had been for a long time, and this was the consequence: his body was refusing to allow him to push it any further. Geralt shuddered to think of just how much his body must have been protesting in the past few days, past few WEEKS, if he were being completely truthful. The complaining wasn’t dramatic; it was an understatement. 

For once, he would not wake Jaskier when the sun came up. He’d wait for Jaskier to wake on his own, make him eat something for breakfast, then allow him to go back to sleep. They couldn’t afford to lose a day’s travel, of course, but he supposed that it was his own fault: had he taken a few hours here and there when Jaskier had said he needed them, they wouldn’t be in this mess. 

For now, all he could do was stoke the fire and let Jaskier sleep, ruminating in his own thoughts from which Jaskier’s chatter was not present to distract himself. 


	2. Skipping Meals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a disclaimer: though this is in no way shape or form about eating disorders, it does centralize around the after-effects of skipping meals often for a prolonged period of time out of necessity, which might be potentially triggering for people who have or are recovering from an eating disorder. Please read with caution!!

“You’ll have to take it easy for a while,” the healer warned. “That gash is in a tricky spot. Move your leg too much, those stitches will pop and you’ll bleed out before you’re as lucky as you were this time to find a healer in a hurry.” 

Geralt nodded, seeming a bit annoyed with the whole ordeal. Jaskier had commanded Roach forward in a panic after Geralt had come back to the camp, tossed his blade down, and collapsed into a heap on the ground, a pool of blood forming far too rapidly around his leg. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, wincing through another hunger pang. Perhaps the fact that they’d have to take a small rest in town while Geralt healed would mean that Jaskier could finally sleep in a bed and eat regular, substantial meals. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t opened your door.” 

“Broken it down, probably, from how hard you were knocking,” she muttered. She was tired—they’d come at a ridiculous time of night and Jaskier had pounded at the door with both fists, shouting as loud as he could. 

“Again, sorry about that,” Jaskier forced a smile. “We’ll pay for the inconvenience, too.”

She huffed, finished tying the bandage around Geralt’s leg, and stood from her chair. “He’s out of the woods for now. I’m going to bed, and I suggest you both do the same. You, especially,” she gestured to Jaskier. “All that panic will give you indigestion if you don’t sleep that demon away.” 

“Uh, thank you,” Jaskier fumbled. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of her. She was kind, but gruff, not unlike Geralt himself, but in a way that didn’t feel familiar and welcoming in the same way. 

“I presume you’ll want a place to stay for the night,” she speculated, “considering I do not believe anyone will still be working at an inn to give you a room.” There were two beds in the main room, presumably for patients, but because they were empty, Jaskier allowed himself to hope she wouldn’t turn him away and force him to set up camp with Roach in the stable. 

“Would it be too much trouble?” Jaskier asked, and she sighed greatly to inform him that it most certainly would be, but that she was going to allow it. 

“Come on, then,” she said, snapping impatient fingers at Jaskier. “Up with you, so I can return to my bed.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I can’t begin to think what would have happened if—”

When Jaskier stood from the floor where he was sitting, his vision began to darken and a hot and cold dizziness washed over him like a wave. He trailed off from whatever it was he’d been saying, his mouth filling with a sort of metallic taste that distracted from his thoughts. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt tried, already sitting up on the bed with both feet on the ground. It figures, Jaskier thought, that Geralt could already be well enough to get to his feet just twenty minutes after they’d stopped him from bleeding out completely. 

He tried his hardest to say still—this had been happening, lately, and it was nothing that wouldn’t pass. The longer he went without a decent meal, the more frequently and aggressively came these spells of vertigo that could bring him to his knees when he stood too fast. However, the darkness in his sight wasn’t dissipating as it normally did: in fact, it was closing in on more and more of his vision. 

“Jus’a moment,” he tried to reassure, but his ears were ringing and he couldn’t quite tell if the words had made it out of his mouth. 

“Have a seat, son,” the healer instructed firmly, but Jaskier was already beginning to feel his legs giving way. He swayed so far backward that he had to stumble to catch himself, and even then, the spinning didn’t stop. 

“Catch him!” being frantically shouted by the doctor was the last thing he registered before succumbing to unconsciousness. 

The first thing he noticed when he came to, covered in cold sweat and lying on the bed where Geralt had been patched up just minutes before, was that Geralt had clearly caught him, because nothing hurt. Only the bone-deep, trembling weakness that accompanied these spells remained to remind him he’d passed out at all. 

There was a damp cloth on his forehead and the woman was waving a small vial of something which smelled so minty he nearly gagged on it. 

“Does he often faint at the sight of blood?” the healer asked. Apparently, Geralt hadn’t gotten up from bed completely—good, he needed to be taking it easy—because he could feel the way the straw in the mattress dipped near his feet. 

“He never has before,” Geralt replied. Unusual, he thought, as he’d have expected Geralt to utilize any chance he was given to paint Jaskier as some delicate flower which wilted embarrassingly at the sight of a little blood. “Is he injured?” 

“He’d have told you, wouldn’t he have?” 

Geralt’s silence was tense and telling. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “He has a predilection for the dramatic.”

As much as he wanted to remain sleeping, he couldn’t just let that slide. 

“Hey,” he muttered, “I can hear you.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt nearly sighed with what sounded almost like relief. “Where are you hurt?”

Jaskier shook his head, sitting up despite Geralt’s gentle hands which pushed lightly at his chest to try to keep him down. He knocked the hands away and closed his eyes as he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. 

“I’m not,” he insisted. It was true: he hadn’t been injured. The hunger pains were back, and he wrapped one arm protectively around his abdomen against a cramp. 

It was the healer’s turn to fret, now, honing in on his stomach and pressing firmly in different areas. 

Jaskier shrugged off the healer’s probing hands, ducking away from the attention with an embarrassed flush to his pale face. 

“Honestly, I just felt a bit dizzy,” he insisted. “It’s not worth making all this fuss.” 

“I’ll decide what’s worth a fuss,” the healer said. “You,” she pointed to Jaskier, “sit down before you fall down.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I’m feeling fine now.”

“Then sit down before I knock you down myself!” she snapped and, well, Jaskier couldn’t well deny a forceful woman what she wanted. Not without a bit of dramatic flare to drive home the point that this was, of course, all unnecessary, he sat on the edge of the bed. She poked around at him for a while, feeling his forehead for fever, checking his eyes, his ears, his throat. 

When she reached his abdomen, she paused, and her wild tawny eyes ignited. “You’re thin,” she noted, but with a note of urgency in her tone that implied that it was more than a casual observation. “Far too thin for a man your height.” 

Jaskier laughed incredulously. “Is that your medical opinion?” he asked, jested. “Tall and slight? What then; are you diagnosing me a scarecrow?”

She didn’t take the deflection. “Bard, I can feel every one of your ribs. This isn’t just a slight build—you’re gaunt like you’ve been starved.”

Jaskier sighed. “A lot of walking and too few breaks for meals,” he tried to explain the concern away, but it only intensified the healer’s sharp gaze. 

“Haven’t you been feeding him?” she asked, this time to Geralt, who scoffed. 

“He’s not my pet.”

“No, I saw your horse when you rode up—healthy and well-groomed. It’s clear you’ve been taking much better care of her than of your friend, here.”

“He’s not—” Geralt started, but he bit his tongue, literally, accidentally, as if the words didn’t want to come out of his mouth. “He’s not ill, then?”

She shook her head. “He’s malnourished.”

Jaskier smiled impatiently. “Great,” he said, forcing himself to his feet again. “Well, then, if all I need is a good meal, we’ll be on our way. Thank you for your time and I apologize for wasting it—”

“One good feast will not be enough to fix this,” she argued, gesturing to Jaskier as a whole. “It will abate the symptoms for tonight, get you back on your feet and feeling right again, but hear me: if you don’t take better care of your body, this will begin to happen more frequently. You’re trying to burn a candle with barely any wick, and if you don’t make a change, you will burn out completely.” 

Perhaps Jaskier was too embarrassed and feeling still too poorly to really take the warning to heart, but Geralt nodded gravely, and from the healer’s gaze, it was clear that it had been intended for him, anyway. 

“Thank you,” Geralt said, and she wordlessly extended her hand for her payment. 

“Get on, then,” she said as soon as she wrapped her bony fingers around the coins, shooing them both to the bedrooms for some much needed sleep. 


	3. Hypothermia

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed under his breath, the word hanging in the cold air as a thick, white cloud. Jaskier, trailing several paces behind, stumbled forward, as desperate to catch up as he was to catch his breath. The winter’s day was so cold that every breath hurt his lungs, and, having spent the better part of an entire day in it, his chest was starting to feel tight. He placed one nearly-numb hand over it and coughed before he spoke. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I lost the trail," Geralt admitted irritably. "The wind is too strong." 

Jaskier hated that he was upset, he really did, but he had to admit that this seemed like a blessing in disguise. He was freezing to his bones, so cold for so long that the muscles he used to shiver had been aching for hours and the skin on his face and ears burned. 

"Perhaps," he shouted over a particularly strong gust of wind, "w-we should just try again tomorrow. It's late. And f-freezing."

Geralt shook his head. "The beast needs to be caught."

"And it will," he reassured. "B-but you've been at this for two days. You n-need to rest."

"I won't be able to sleep until its head is in my hands," Geralt muttered, so quietly that Jaskier knew he didn't care whether or not he'd been heard. When Geralt was in a mood like this, there was no way he'd win this argument. Best case scenario, he'd end up getting dropped off at the mouth of some cave with a blanket and some firewood while Geralt galavanted off into the night without him, and that wasn't preferable; not to Jaskier. He shivered hard once more and pressed one hand to his temple to try to massage away the headache he'd been fighting since lunch. 

"How do I help?" he asked. Geralt's face betrayed nothing, but Jaskier liked to believe he was grateful, and it was hard to think he wasn't when he reached out and brushed the growing layer of snow from Jaskier's shoulders before speaking. 

"We have a better chance at refinding the trail if we split up," he said, looking hard at Jaskier. Knowing that he was under scrutiny, he tried to keep his expression neutral, but with his mind feeling as sluggish and numb as his body, he wasn't too sure he was doing a great job of that. His suspicions were confirmed when Geralt sighed. "But if you aren’t—"

"No," Jaskier curtailed. He swayed forward a bit, overeager enough to feel off-balance, and caught himself. "No. I c-can." He hated the way his mouth was tripping over syllables, but it didn't appear as though it bothered Geralt, because he didn't waste more time arguing. Geralt pointed him in some direction—it was too dark and snowy for him to tell whether it was the direction they'd come from, the opposite, or anywhere in between—and brushed more snow off the top of his head. Were he not half-frozen, it might have made his face heat up with embarrassment or something else, but he was deprived of that little pleasure. 

“I’ll come find you,” Geralt reassured. “Just keep on the path. Look for tracks." 

Jaskier clumsily began on his way. He dared not blink, because if he did, he was sure that his slow focus and exhausted eyes would lose the trail in front of him, but as it were, he was indeed able to see a clear path through the trees along the river. It took all his focus to place one foot in front of another, and he couldn't help but think that even if there had been footprints in the snow earlier, the wind and increasing blizzard might cover them up in no time at all. 

How was he supposed to find this beast, anyway, if he had no idea what he was really looking for? Geralt, as usual, had given him nothing of any substance to go on, or if he had, he was too cold to remember it. Thoughts came slowly, like each one had to bubble up from a bucket of treacle that coated his brain. 

Footprints, he reminded himself. He was to be looking for footprints.

How was he supposed to see them if he could barely see his own hands at the end of his arms through the snow? 

The cold was sapping his energy. It was difficult to even think, let alone walk, and after only a few moments, it began to make his head swim. All his limbs were heavy and aching, and though Jaskier knew that it would make Geralt angry later, he needed to sit down.

The actual action was more of a fall than it was sitting, crashing to his knees so hard that he would bet they were bleeding through the thin fabric of his pants. He closed his eyes hard against the spinning sensation he felt and tried to relax against the shivering, taking deep breaths through his nose.

The wind howled through the trees. 

The water on his clothes from the snow was frozen enough that moving his arms made a little crinkling sound. 

And he had no idea how long Geralt would be gone. 

Surely, he wouldn't leave him for long, right? Not in weather like this. It was dangerous, to both of them but moreso to Jaskier, and, if nothing else, he was waiting on Jaskier's ability to find this trail. 

When he could take the wind in his ears no longer, Jaskier scooted backward, finding some minimal proection in the wide trunk of a tree. 

And that's when he saw it. 

A streak of black blood on the bark toxic enough that it had created its own little divot there like a burned engraving. The spot was nearly nothing, so small that he certainly would have missed it had he not been at eye level with it.

He wanted to piece together a trajectory: he knew that if it had been here and wasn't here any longer, it had to have gone somewhere. However, to try to extrapolate that information proved too demanding for his muddled mind. 

Jaskier wasn't sure how long he spent sitting there and staring at the spot, but it mustn't have been an insignificant amount of time, because the next thing he was aware of was Geralt's hand on his shoulder. 

"Jaskier?" he called, concern alight in his eyes. He wanted him to ask him if he was alright, to express an interest in whether he'd collapsed or was simply resting, so it crushed him when the first and only thing he asked was, "anything?" 

The disappointment couldn't stick; he was shaking too much. He pointed at the spot on the tree, and Geralt's defeated posture perked up as he ran a finger over it inquisitively. 

"Good, Jaskier, good," he praised. Jaskier was becoming aware of things as Geralt's eyes rested on them: from the tree, he glanced toward the nearest bush, which was full of suspiciously-snapped branches, then a path of weeds behind that which were subtly pressed against the earth like they'd been stepped on, and, finally, a series of cracks on the frozen surface of the river behind them. 

"It must have crossed the water," he said. With dread in the pit of his stomach, Jaskier took the much-warmer hand offered to him and stood unsteadily. 

"We c-can't do that," Jaskier reminded him. "We'll fall through."

Geralt shook his head, testing the ice with one foot. "I'll go first," he offered, like that made one damn bit of difference in how much Jaskier hated this. 

"Y-you," he accused with a pointed finger, "are out of your m-mind."

Geralt already had both feet on the ice. It seemed to be supporting his weight well enough, but Jaskier couldn't help but wonder how long that might last. 

"G-Geralt," he called, feeling frantic but lacking the energy to sound so. "Be careful." 

He watched impatiently, terrified, as Geralt shuffled quickly and deftly across the ice like he'd been built to do it, then hopped off on the other side of the river with the audacity to turn to Jaskier and motion for him to follow. 

He scoffed. "Are you mad?" he asked. "If I fall through—"

"It supported me," Geralt reasoned. "You'll be fine."

If Jaskier could write a song for every time Geralt told him that seconds before disaster, he'd be the most prolific bard who'd ever lived. 

One foot on the ice, easy enough. It slid away from him for a moment, but he caught his balance and steadied himself before putting the second onto the slick surface. 

Great, now he was standing. But how was he supposed to walk?

“Jaskier, you need to keep moving,” Geralt bit. “You can’t just stand on it like that.”

Jaskier nodded. He couldn’t very well pick of either of his feet to take a step, so he tried to mimic the shuffling motion he’d watched Geralt do just moments ago. He slid one foot barely forward, then brought the second to its side. Again. 

He was making no progress. 

This was taking forever. 

And he was pretty sure that the sound he was hearing was the cracks in the ice deepening. 

“Jaskier, move,” Geralt commanded. 

“Trying,” he snapped. He supposed that if he were warmer, perhaps he could think of a way to do this that didn’t feel totally stupid and dangerous, but for now, this was all that was coming to mind. 

Another thick shattering sound. 

Jaskier began to sweat a little. 

“Move!” Geralt shouted, and the tone was so urgent that it had Jaskier forcing one foot so far ahead of the other that it completely washed out from under him when he went to put his weight on it, sending him sprawling backward.

He braced himself to hit his head on the ice, but he barely registered that feeling, because it immediately gave way to the shock of icy water. 

Stay calm. You can swim, he reminded himself. Just swim up.

But it was dark, and he couldn’t tell where up was. 

The fall had happened so fast he hadn’t had a chance to hold his breath, and his face stung inside and out with icy water. 

He blew a bubble and followed it to the surface, and if he’d thought he’d been panicked before, it hadn’t even compared to the feeling of decimated hope when his hands hit the bottom of the ice rather than the hole he’d fallen through. 

He beat his fists against it, but to no avail—the water sucked the strength from his punches.

He frantically searched for the hole in the ice, but he’d clearly drifted quite a bit, because it was nowhere to be found. 

And his vision was darkening. 

This, of all things, was not how he’d thought he’d die. A bar fight, maybe, or dramatically and valiantly injured chasing a beast by Geralt’s side.

Fate was a bitch, wasn’t she?

He let his eyes slip shut, too tired to force them open, and was just beginning to lose consciousness when the surface of the ice was broken by what he’d later learn was the hilt of a sword, and Geralt’s strong arms fished him out of the water and dragged him to the riverbank. 

He coughed up water for a long time, then choked on air for a while after that. All the while, Geralt was patting his back heavily, as if he were trying to beat the water out of his chest, and he didn’t have the air to say it wasn’t helping and to ask him to stop. He wriggled away from his arm’s reach, mind numb from the cold. 

At least now they’d get to rest, Jaskier thought. It wasn’t as if Geralt could really expect him to keep tracking a monster in this condition. 

“Alright?” Geralt asked when Jaskier finally caught his breath. His teeth were chattering too hard to say anything, so he nodded. “Good. Get up.” Jaskier couldn’t bite back a groan as Geralt pulled him up by the forearms. They were, Jaskier realized, on the other side of the river now, and when Geralt turned toward the path he’d been eyeing moments ago before he fell, his heart sank. 

Geralt didn’t ask if he was able to keep going; he just assumed it. Jaskier should have known better.

He tried hard to keep his eyes open as he followed Geralt, but blinking was now more of a small nap than anything else, and he fought to keep pace with an undeterred Witcher. 

Geralt was pressing forward like a man on a mission, his eyes constantly and determinedly scanning the area.

Jaskier forced one foot in front of the other, aching and freezing, for what felt like forever, not stopping or even slowing until they reached the mouth of a small cave. 

“Y-you think it’s in here?” Jaskier asked as quietly as he could. He couldn’t help but feel like this was a terrible spot to do battle with a monster: as easily as they could corner it for a fight, it could also chase them into a wall and devour them whole, since they had no place to run. He wanted to articulate those concerns, but the shivering stopped him. 

He could have sworn Geralt looked offended when he sat Jaskier down to lean against the mouth of the cave and turned his attention to firewood. 

“No,” Geralt replied. In a quick, magical motion, Geralt created a spark which lit the kindling in front of him. “Off with your clothes. They’re wet.” 

Jaskier frowned. “But I’ll freeze.”

Shaking his head, Geralt swatted Jaskier’s hands away from their spot protecting his doublet and undid the buttons, stripping him quickly before pulling off his own shirt, then spreading the clothes out around the fire and placing Roach’s saddle blanket on the ground near the flames. 

It was a silent invitation—no, command—for Jaskier to lie down on the thick padding of the blanket and press his bare chest to Geralt’s own. 

“The trail will be there in the morning,” Geralt said. He felt Geralt shiver as Jaskier’s icy body leeched his heat. “God, you’re cold.” He nodded awkwardly. “Rest. We’ll be up before the sun tomorrow.” 

He could tell Geralt wasn’t happy about the delay, but the fact that he was willing to make the time at all was a change. For the first time in years with Geralt, Jaskier felt like a priority. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt accidentally breaks Jaskier's rib while they're practicing fighting.

Jaskier ducks to one side to dodge the fist which is swung in his face, and before he can feel proud of himself for that, he’s stumbling to the side in a much clumsier attempt to avoid a swinging foot. 

“Keep your focus,” Geralt commands, allowing Jaskier to recenter before he continues their training. “Your enemy will not grant you my same mercy.”

“I think you mean your enemies,” Jaskier points out in exhausted, panting breaths. They’ve been doing this for a while now, combat training, and surprisingly, it had been Geralt who’d insisted upon it. Jaskier would have thought he’d prefer if he stayed to the side in battles so as not to get in his way, but more recently, he’d been feeling like Geralt was beginning to trust him, at least enough that he wanted him to be able to fight back if attacked. 

“Don’t think for one second they would hesitate to kill you to get to me,” Geralt warns. 

“I know; I know,” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I’m focused.” 

“Then you’re slow.”

“You’re a Witcher!” 

“And even I have been injured by mere men,” he replies, “so just imagine what they could do to you.”

Jaskier pales. “I prefer not to, to be perfectly honest,” he admits. “Songs about the injured hero are harrowing, or triumphant. Songs about a bloodied companion are just sad.” 

Geralt grunts, not giving any warning before lunging forward once more and sweeping Jaskier’s feet from under him, pinning him to the ground and reaching for his blade. Jaskier tries to squirm free, but Geralt’s whole foot is resting on top of his chest, and he can’t move. 

Does Geralt know how hard he’s stepping on him?

In a second, the tip of Geralt’s sword is pressed under Jaskier’s chin, and he closes his eyes to block out the disappointed look on Geralt’s face. 

“What will you do now?” he asks.

“I suppose I die,” Jaskier wheezes, barely even able to pull in enough air to speak.

Jaskier is a lover, not a fighter, but for Geralt, he’d do his best. Because Geralt fights for the same two reasons that Jaskier falls in love—either for the high that blocks out the wailing moan of everything wrong in his life, or because he has no other choice. 

The cool metal of the blade is now steamed from the heat of exertion spiraling between the neck of his shirt and his chin, and Geralt draws it back, not removing his foot from Jaskier’s chest. 

He’s never going to get the bootprint out of his shirt. 

“Not good enough,” he sighs, but Jaskier can sense that ‘yet’ is swallowed to keep him from getting haughty about the eventuality. If it weren’t, he assumed, he’d have been turned loose and told to stop following ages ago. 

Geralt hesitates for only one more moment before stepping off Jaskier and offering him a hand up, where he brushes the dirt from his pants and shirt before turning back to Geralt with renewed determination. He would not end this sparring session with Geralt thinking he didn’t have a chance in hell if they faced battle; he had to give him some glimmer of hope that might sustain him until the next time they practiced. 

“One more round,” Jaskier challenges. Geralt brushes him off, shaking his head and tossing one hand up dismissively. 

“You can rest,” he says, something he only says when Jaskier has been doing poorly. Geralt isn’t one to quit while he’s ahead. “We’ll resume tomorrow.”

“No,” Jaskier demands. “I want another go. I’m not tired.”

That was a lie. Geralt looks him up and down with a scowl. 

“That’s a lie.”

“It is,” Jaskier admits, “but I want another go. I think I learned from what I did wrong, and I’d like to try it again.”

Geralt raises one eyebrow slightly, looking equal parts like a wolf cub playing with its brothers and an adult wolf assessing how much force it might take to take down a deer for supper. 

“Alright,” Geralt concedes, “if that is what you want.”

Jaskier nods; he has to. 

It’s the same damn move. He thinks that because he knows the foot is coming this time, he’ll be able to avoid it, but Geralt is fighting even harder, he thinks, to counteract the fact that Jaskier is anticipating his every move, and when Geralt’s shin comes into contact with his ribs, it sends a colorful explosion of pain across his vision. 

He needs to tap out, he realizes immediately, but Geralt’s attacks don’t let up, and he finds no opportunity to do anything but continue to dodge, to try to block, until finally, Geralt moves back to center. 

He looks slightly pleased, but only for a second before he reigns that expression back into neutral. 

“That was better,” he commends. The shock of the hit and the thrill of the fight are enough, at first, to keep the pain tolerable, but it fades fast, leaving Jaskier breathless and a little dizzy. He straightens up as much as he can without aggravating the bruising ribs and tries to breathe shallow breaths. 

“See?” he asks cockily. “I told you I could do better.” 

“Hm,” is the clipped reply, apparently already feeling as if the moment was getting too sentimental. Geralt turned his attention to Roach’s saddlebags and began to unpack them. “Gather firewood,” he instructs lightly. “I’m going fishing.”

Jaskier nods like it’s nothing, but he can feel dread creeping in. How is he supposed to carry all that weight with his ribs like this? Gently, he presses them with his fingertips through his shirt, and even that small amount of pressure makes him wince. They’re definitely bruised, possibly worse, but the whole point of this is to prove Geralt that he’s strong enough to keep up, and admitting that what Geralt probably had thought was a beginner’s fight had injured him would be doing just the opposite. 

One by one, he collects the smallest pieces of firewood he can find, breathing through the pain of bending over and carrying them back to the campsite as quickly as he can, hoping to get enough before Geralt returned to question him about it. 

Of course, Geralt is faster. Jaskier returns from gathering another log to Geralt kneeling in front of the four logs he’d brought back disapprovingly. 

“This is really all you’ve collected?” he challenges. Jaskier shrugs. 

“I’m not finished yet,” he maintains, gesturing to the little log in his hand. 

“It’s all sticks and leaves. A fire made with only kindling will burn too fast to even boil water.”

He knows that, but he’d half hoped that Geralt would return with no fish for the third night in a row and he wouldn’t need a fire, anyway. 

“That one; bring it here.” 

When Jaskier spots the enormous, thick branch that Geralt is pointing to, he has to bite back a groan. “You’re sure we can’t just—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt curtails, eyeing him suspiciously. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

Racking his brain for an excuse, Jaskier runs a hand through his hair when the search turns up empty and he has no choice but to hope that perhaps the branch is lighter than it looks. 

As soon as he tries to heft it up onto his shoulder, the pain blinds him again, and when he blinks through it, this time, he finds that he’s collapsed to the ground and Geralt has taken to his side, patting his cheek hard. Jaskier pushes the hands away. 

“What’s wrong?” Geralt demands. 

“Just a little dizzy,” he denies, and it’s not technically a lie: he is dizzy, from the pain, but an instinctive hand shooting to his rib cage protectively when Geralt shifts gives him away. 

“You cried out before you collapsed,” he reasons. Damn, he had? That’s embarrassing. 

“It’s really nothing, some minor bruising. This is a bit dramatic, I think.” 

“Pull up your shirt,” he barks. 

“What?” Jaskier asks incredulously. “No, I’m fine; I—”

“If you’re fine,” Geralt reasons, “then you’ve got no reason not to pull up your shirt.”

He’s cornered and caught. Figures that he couldn’t hide it for long. Geralt is going to think he’s so pathetic, being so incapacitated by a little bruise that he can’t even lift a damned log. Obediently, he swallows his pride and lifts up his shirt slowly, barely even protesting when Geralt gets impatient and aggressively tugs it up the rest of the way. 

Jaskier braces himself for an insult, but instead, Geralt inhales sharply through his teeth and grimaces. 

“These look broken,” he informs, his eyes flickering to Jaskier’s. “This is from our practice?”

Jaskier averts his eyes pointedly. “Uh, yes,” he admits.

Geralt frowns. “When I kicked you?”

“Yes.”

Now, he braces himself for an insult. 

“You continued to defend yourself well after this happened.”

“But I didn’t land a single blow.”

Geralt huffs. “Of course you didn’t,” he replies. “I probably broke your ribs. You shouldn’t have even been able to stay upright after something like this, not to mention keep sparring.”

Jaskier just shrugs, because he knows it’s coming; he knows the other shoe will drop. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want you to think me weak.”

“Jaskier, I know you’re breakable; you’re human,” he argues, forcing the hostility out of his tone. “But I would not think you weak.”

Jaskier struggled to find the right words, so he says the wrong ones. 

“I just don’t want to be left behind.”

Geralt never has the right words. 

“Healer, first thing tomorrow,” he insists. “We’ll restock supplies there, and as soon as we’re finished, we’ll begin again toward the mountains.” 

‘We’ had been everything Jaskier had ever wanted. 


End file.
